Page 61 of The Mafia King's Baby

“What about you? Would you miss the cold?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “I’d miss snow at Christmas, but I’d rather give our child warm winters and the sound of fountains than the memories I associate with Russian winters. The men who came for our parents came during a bitterly cold February…” He trails off with a haunted expression.

I put my hand on his for comfort. “Morocco it is, then?”

He slowly nods. “No Russian Mafia boss, no murdered federal agents, and no corruption scandals.”

I grin. “Just a businessman and his wife who want to raise their family somewhere beautiful and peaceful.”

I lean closer to the screen, studying the listing for the riad in the Atlas Mountains. The photos show rooms with soaring ceilings, carved wood details, and terraces that overlook valleys dotted with olive groves. It’s the kind of place where you could hear nothing but wind through the trees and distant calls to prayer, where the loudest sound might be our child’s laughter echoing off ancient walls.

“It’s beautiful.” I tap the screen lightly. “I can picture us there.”

“Really?” Something in his voice suggests my approval matters more than he wants to admit.

“Really. It feels like a place where we could build something lasting that belongs to us instead of being shaped by what we’re running from.”

He closes the laptop and turns to face me fully. “It won’t be easy. New language, new culture, and a completely different way of life.”

“We’ve already adapted to living in armed compounds and exposing federal corruption.” I reach for his hand. “I think we can handle learning Arabic and haggling in souks.”

The smile that crosses his face is different from any I’ve seen before, becoming lighter and more hopeful. “Our child will grow up trilingual.”

“Trilingual?”

“English, Arabic, and Russian. French too, so quad-lingual? I want them to know where they come from, even if we never tell them the whole truth about how we got there.”

The image of our son or daughter switching easily between languages, comfortable in multiple worlds, fills me with a pride that surprises me with its intensity. This child will be stronger than either of us, shaped by love instead of violence, and protected fiercely.

“When do you think we’ll be ready to go?” I ask.

“Whenever we’ve completely destroyed Lang’s network, established our new identities, and make sure there’s no one left who might come looking for us. Ideally, I want us on a plane the night we leak the information to the press and the FBI, already over international waters.” His hand moves to rest on my stomach. “We have to be finished with this before we can start our new life as a family.”

I cover his hand with mine, imagining the three of us walking through narrow streets filled with the scent of spices and sound of fountains, our child secure in the knowledge that their parents love each other and chose this life together. “I want to learn everything about Morocco before we go, including the language, the culture, and the history. I want to be ready to make it our home.”

“We’ll learn together. All of us.” His thumb traces gentle circles on my hand. “Our child will grow up believing this was always the plan, that we chose Morocco because we fell in love with it, not because we were running from anything.”

The story we’ll tell our child takes shape in my mind—two people who met and fell in love, who decided to start fresh in a beautiful country far from home. No mention of corruption or violence, with no hint of the danger that brought us together. Just love and adventure and the desire to build something beautiful together.

For the first time since learning about the pregnancy, I feel something close to peace. We have a plan, a destination, and a future that exists beyond the immediate dangers we’re facing. Morocco feels like hope made tangible, a place where we can become the people our child deserves as parents. “I want to start learning Arabic now, and French too, since Morocco was a French protectorate. I want to be ready, and let’s just say, my high school French class didn’t go well.”

He laughs. “We’ll learn together. Leonid too. He’ll need new languages for wherever he decides to settle.”

“You think he’ll come with us?”

“For a while, probably. Until he’s sure we’re safe and established.” Yefrem closes the laptop and pulls me closer. “I think he’ll stay, but if he chooses to leave us at some point, he’s earned the right to disappear into whatever life he wants.”

The loyalty between them amazes me sometimes. Brothers by choice rather than blood, bound by shared survival and absolute trust. Our child will understand that kind of devotion, will grow up knowing that family extends beyond genetics to include the people who choose to stand with you.

“I wish I had some way to alert my mom ahead of time to start learning Arabic and French and be ready for a drastic move.” I can’t imagine she’ll choose not to come with us, especially with a grandchild involved. She has a good life she’s created since being widowed, but I know her first alliance will be to me and the baby. I just hate to spring it on her.

He looks alarmed. “You can’t?—”

I’m already nodding. “I know. The music box will have to be all the communication for now, but I feel hopeful about seeing hersoon and starting our lives together.” I fold his hand with mine. “I love you.” The words come out soft but certain. “I love you, and I love the life we’re building together, and I love that our child will grow up in a place as beautiful as this.”

He pulls me closer, and I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Somewhere in the Atlas Mountains of Morocco, there’s a riad waiting for us, with rooms that will echo with our child’s first words, and terraces where we’ll watch sunsets and plan our future together.

We just have to survive long enough to get there.

---